The Diary of Miss Darcy Bustle: 17 August


I have to be careful writing about Lulu Guinness in my diary because she’s a vicious cat who doesn’t like having her life exposed. Over the weekend she was in a frenzy because I’d stolen her catnip! What is catnip anyway? She spends hours lying on the floor hugging this little green felt bag and meowing loudly. If she finds out what I’ve done I’ll be for the chop!


This morning I was tasked with finding out what doggies want in an owner. It’s mad, really, because all any dog really wants is to live with Jilly Cooper, who has to be the best friend any of us could wish for. How lucky was her whippet, Bluebell, to find herself waking up at Jilly Cooper’s house? Some doggies don’t have friends, sadly, but they live in hope. As our lovely columnist Diana Moran points out, if you want to get fit you might want to adopt a dog. Not a cat, though – they really don’t like going for walks.


While I was away in Cornwall, something very alarming happened at the office: a pug called Toby was appointed as our new assistant pictures editor. I assume he got the job because his bulgy little eyeballs allow him to see things in panavision or something. Anyway, he’s quite aged, apparently, and has been found an old chair to sit on. Chair? Since when did I ever get a chair? This won’t do.



I have been thinking for some time now about starting a band and calling it Darcy and the Sausage Sisters (members can be both men and women). So far, though, none of my pals seem keen and Louis IV, the French Bulldog round the corner, said it would never take off. What does he know? His ancestors were silly enough to get their heads chopped off. Anyway, I am going to start writing some songs, all of which will have to have the word sausage in them. I’m hoping the readers of The Lady might help.


We often go to Embankment gardens for our lunch now the weather has improved, but still I’m not allowed on the grass. In fact, no one is allowed on the grass. It’s nutty. But not as nutty as the people who eat their snacks and then just leave their litter on the floor. Who do think they are? True, I do feel honour-bound to sniff out every piece in case there’s a tasty morsel left inside, but it really shouldn’t happen. Perhaps the park needs little litter monitors like me. I think I’ll write to the Prime Minister.

See you next week 

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